Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

Madison’s eyes narrowed for a brief instant. It angered him that his slut of a daughter would live in luxury. She didn’t deserve it. “Ah, yes,” he said. “My little girl will make a fine wife.”

He’d been concerned about whom to invite to the wedding. He didn’t want Ira Butler to discover Byrony’s lustful activities with Gabriel de Neve, at least until after the wedding. He’d made a mistake pouring out his troubles to that old gossip Jeb Donnally. He led Ira into the house for a drink of his prize whiskey, and left Byrony to herself.

Alice found her daughter in the stable an hour later grooming Thorny, her mare. She said, without preamble, “Do you wish to marry Ira Butler, my dear child?”

Byrony turned slowly, her hand still stroking her mare’s glossy neck. “He seems very nice. He is well-looking.” She closed her eyes a moment, and said, her voice tinged with bitterness, “And of course he has the most important advantage—he’s rich.”

“You don’t feel he is too much older than you?”

Byrony shrugged. “He is handsome, Mother. He will probably look as he does today in ten years. I think I may come to like him quite a lot.” She paused a moment, then asked, “Is he paying your husband enough for me? Will it ease your life?”

“Yes, and he’s done it in such a way that I believe he knows my poor Madison’s weaknesses. There is a liberal amount of money to be paid into an account with Señor Bandini in San Diego every month.”

Byrony sighed her relief. Not one big payment that could be gambled away in a week. “Did you speak private to him about it?”

“No. He just seemed to know. Madison was a bit upset—”

“You mean he ranted and raved at you.” Her hands fisted at her sides. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No, not really,” Alice said without rancor. “But Ira wouldn’t change his mind. I want you to be happy, Byrony, and safe. I had almost ceased to believe in miracles.” She hugged her daughter, causing Thorny to neigh softly. “Ira is a good man. He will never harm you.”

Byrony blinked, startled by another memory of that man. No, she’d seen it in his eyes. No meanness there. And a blue color that she couldn’t begin to describe—dark, so very dark, but not a navy blue. Eyes you could stare into for years and still not know their depths. She had to stop it. It was all romantic drivel.

But it was his face she saw late that night as she lay in her bed, the chirping of the crickets the only sound to break the stillness. Even her mother’s husband had fallen into a drunken stupor. She couldn’t hear him snoring, thank God. What was the gambler doing? Did he ever think about her, wonder what she was doing, dream about her beautiful eyes?

“You are such a witless fool, Byrony,” she said and fluffed up her pillow.

Brent Hammond was sitting very quietly, his face expressionless, as was his wont during a high-stakes poker game. He’d already won three thousand dollars. Five hundred of his dollars lay in the center of the table, along with another fifteen hundred dollars from the three other players. One of the players was James Cora himself, owner of the El Dorado saloon. It was well past midnight, and the game had grown more intense with each passing hour. Brent’s concentration remained unbroken. He had to continue winning. He had to, to buy the saloon on the corner of Clay and Montgomery.

“How many, Hammond?”

“Two,” Brent said, as he selected the losing cards from his hands. “That’ll do it, I think.”

James Cora grunted as he dealt the cards. Hammond was good, very good, oblivious of all the distractions Cora always provided. He’d taken only one brief look at Janine’s full bosom, then turned away. The other two men he discounted. They were miners out to lose every ounce of gold in their pockets.

Brent gently fanned his cards. A full house, kings over eights. He smiled inwardly, allowing nothing to show on his face. He’d been dealt the three kings, and Cora had given him the two eights. Very nice. Very nice indeed. He studied the other men’s faces around the circular table. One very young man was smiling broadly. Young fool. The other, his friend from Nevada City, was looking like he’d lost his best friend. And Cora, no expression on his broad, handsome face. Brent had seen James Cora aboard a riverboat on the Mississippi some five years before. He’d never played against him.

“Your bet, Foggerty,” Cora said to the youngest man.

Foggerty licked his lips in evident excitement. “Five hundred,” he said, and shoved gold forward to the center of the table.

His partner folded.

Brent paused a moment, then raised five hundred.

James Cora lightly snapped the edges of his cards between his thumb and little finger, with slow deliberation. It was a studied trick that was no longer an affectation. His dark brows nearly met at the center of his forehead. He raised another five hundred dollars.

Within five minutes there was ten thousand dollars sitting in the middle of the table.

“Call,” Cora said finally.

Foggerty, a huge grin slitting his mouth, slammed down his cards. “Three aces.”

“Sorry,” Brent said quietly, “full house, kings over eights.”

Cora gave a dramatic pause, and Brent felt his blood turn to ice. He cursed silently, waiting for the ax to fall. Cora looked him full in the face, a twisted smile on his full lips. “I believe, Hammond, that I’m in for some competition.” With those words, he tossed his cards in, facedown.

Brent wanted to dance on top of the table; he wanted to shout and laugh and drink a gallon of raw whiskey. Instead, he nodded to each of the men, his eyes resting on Cora’s face for a long moment. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, slowly raking in his winnings. “I hope we play again.”